Out of Bounds
by fracturates
Summary: Madge U. & Peeta M. are reaped into the 74th Hunger Games, will they both come back? Written from Madge's sometimes Gale's POV.
1. Unforeseen Circumstances

**disclaimer**; bear with me with this fic. i have hopes for it, even though i am a little bit skittish with my writing, i am quite into this idea. you will have to wait for the next update to know what's going on c: i will upload it asap. this is a **gadge** fic, however, you will have to wait for it to get to that point!

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Unforeseen Circumstances

It's a warm day, and I shift uncomfortably in my starchy white dress. There is no one around; everyone is either inside with their families or at the square already. I sigh to myself, the sound carrying over the scrape of my shoes against the paving slabs. Saph offered to walk with me, but I know her youngest son is still eligible for the reaping, and there's only one place she wants to be right now. In any case, I am not a very good person to walk with when all I want to do is unwind. Small talk is something that evades me; it makes me anxious, because I never know what to talk about. Least of all on a day like today. I let out a deep breath air, allowing my eyes to drink in the town area I am so accustomed to, making my way to the square.

My mind skips back to the meeting that caused my tension to grow, and all I can remember is the glower of grey eyes and harshly spoken words. My own weren't much better, but he held such dislike in his tone that I could only answer back in surprised offence. The way he looked at my pin… my hand unconsciously rises to it. It was the first year I had worn it, at my mother's behest. I had only seen it once before, in a small blue velvet box, and my mother had almost burst my eardrums with her scolding and screaming. When she had called me to their room, and had been sitting at the vanity, the last thing I expected was to be handed my aunt's good luck charm. I was proud to wear it, or I had been, it almost felt soiled now.

In trying to forget Gale Hawthorne's snapped tones, I have only pulled myself further in. I have five entries, I have one less than he did in first year. I doubt he even believes my name is in there, given my father's position in the district. My teeth clamp on the flesh of my cheek, mauling at it for a moment, and my arms cross. I wish there was someone here, someone with me, for a split second. I wish my mother would come with me to the square. But she won't, she never will. She will be sitting in the living room, curled into the couch. She will be watching the reaping from the comfort of home; she will wait for me to come back.

"_You will come home, Maggie_." The second person to tell me that today, I'm guessing it must be true. My father afforded me an 'I love you, darling' in the morning, as I came out of the bathroom. A hug and a kiss, and he was gone, my skin smelled of his aftershave for a while afterwards. Everyone seemed sure I wouldn't be reaped; I was almost starting to feel as though this was a premonition. After all, my aunt had been my age when she had perished in the Second Quarter Quell. I was prepared, for whatever fate, I was going to be prepared. I told myself that. I was stronger than Gale had made me feel, I wasn't my aunt – no matter what my mother thought.

If I survived another reaping, I would come home and I would privately mourn those people that I had known. That I had watched. I don't talk to many, but I watch them. I escape into my own world, and I see people when they don't see me. There are only a few people I would consider a friend, but that is my natural distrust of others. In the town area, more often than not, people will want to use any means of garnering more power. I have learned to distance myself from them, and keep myself to myself. I spill no secrets; I keep my mother's condition a secret. I keep my father's disillusionment with the Capitol to myself. Knowledge is power, and I won't be the cause of my family's demise. All I want to do is protect them, the most powerful are always the most vulnerable.

I'm jerked from my thoughts as the square suddenly looms, with the insane hustle bustle. The stage looks so jagged and unnatural, the heaps of bodies moving through the space suddenly make my confidence slip away. The swell in my chest pops and bursts, and I remember where I am. And where I am there is no security. It is comprised of the seeds of fear the Capitol sow, and that is what we reap. For their entertainment. I take in a deep breath, and follow the line to the desks that cross the front of the cordoned off areas. Where we will stand, waiting to for our fate to be pulled out of an unholy reaping ball.

"Name?"

I forgot where I was, the voice cuts through my musings and I see I have been pushed to the fore. My voice lacks conviction as I answer, "Margaret Undersee." My finger is pricked, five slips of paper signed, and I am being told to go and go to the pen I am guided to. The square is normally lovely, a jolly swell of voices and laughter. It lacks warmth today; it lacks everything that gives it character. I am somewhere in the middle of the crowd, not old enough to be at the front or young enough to be at the back. I suck in a deep breath, and I see Katniss out of the corner of my eye. She's not looking in my direction, and I know that it's Prim's first reaping. She hasn't told me so much, but I know of her sister. The space around me lessens and lessens, and the confidence is all but gone as panic sets in.

I don't think I can breathe; I'm getting lost in all of these bodies.

Suddenly, or so it feels, the movement stops and the microphone crackles to life. I can move a little more, and I find a space of my own. I look at the stage, just about catching sight of my father as he rises to his feet. The clock chimes twice, and he launches into his spiel. His eyes are everywhere but on me, and I can see the sweat on the exposed part of his scalp. He keeps his voice grave at the appropriate times, almost jovial as he speaks of the joys of belonging to a beautiful country such as Panem.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," not now, he sounds despondent now, he knows it is almost time. He still needs to go through the list of victors, a very short list. Two. And only one is alive, currently staggering across the stage. Everyone watches him, everyone in Panem is watching him. Haymitch Abernathy, the winner of the Games that cost my aunt her life. That sent my mother into this crippling world she lives in. He is drunk out of his mind, medicating himself like my mother does, and everyone applauds half heartedly. He lunges at Effie Trinket who gives him such a look, I know she's going to bathe herself of the smell of stagnant alcohol the moment she can. I look at my father and my heart hurts a little, but my stomach soon squeezes again. I am strong, I am strong.

Without missing a beat, and almost too quickly, he passes the torch to Effie Trinket. I see her gaudy colours, and I bite my lips. Her wig is a little skewed, she looks a little flustered, since her encounter with our victor. Not that it would matter, generally the Capitol people are ridiculous, completely ridiculous. I have seen my fair share, too, outside of Effie Trinket. I know how to deal with them, appeal to their egos. For the most part, anyway. My father normally summons me to fill my mother's place, to play the piano for them. I wish I was there, with my piano…

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

Her accent makes my face cringe, her words even more. Because it was going to start. No one wants it to be them, no one. And I have five entries amongst thousands, _thousands_. It won't be me. I am strong. I am strong. Her words come all too soon, "Ladies first!" Selfish thoughts, _not me_, filter through. Other thoughts of who I don't want it to be follow. Anyone else – a faceless stranger I don't know. But someone always means something to someone else, it's a vicious cycle. I watch her hand move in the bowl, I watch her fingers skim over the paper. I see her grab one.

My heart stops.

I see her unfold it.

I feel sick.

She moves.

I bite my lips hard.

She reaches the podium.

My hands are curled to fists.

"_Margaret Undersee_."


	2. Tired Eyes, Tired Mind

**disclaimer**; i hope i managed to keep the flow up, i was hit with another smack of inspiration and just typed this out. i'm getting the feeling chapters are going to turn all one tree hill and get named after songs c: i'm still getting a feel for madge's character, so i'm sure she's going to be more fleshed out as this goes along. any comments or reviews for improvements would be graciously received.

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Tired Eyes, Tired Mind

My mind is full static, as though a nest of wasps have suddenly broken out. I can hear my pulse, and I can see everyone parting around me. It's as though I've suddenly been struck down with some affliction that they don't want to catch. I look around desperately, almost panicked, and then I catch myself. I had been reaped. I was a tribute. I swallow thickly, my mouth feels as though it is full of cotton, but I won't show my fear. _I am strong_. My back straightens out, and I try and tilt my chin upwards and force my shoulders to carry this burden. I can't look at my father, I can't. Because all of my resolve will break. Everything I am trying to hold in, everything I don't want to explode from me, it will pour out the moment I meet my father's gaze.

I can't breathe, my steps are slow. My hands are still in fists at my sides, and I walk through the path everyone has made for me. I walk and I refuse to cry. I used to have dreams when I was younger, that would grip me so tightly I would wake up. I'd wake up and I wouldn't be able to move. My eyes could see, but I couldn't scream. I couldn't lift an arm or a leg. I would lie there, in this cocooned state, and feel the panic wash over me. It was the inverse now. Every aspect of me felt like it should be terrified, like it should be screaming. But inside I was quiet. I felt empty, hollow, and the way Effie Trinket said my name bounced around my skull like a chime.

_Margaret Undersee_.

That was my name, wasn't it? That was why I was walking to the stage. All too slow for Effie Trinket, apparently, who was gesturing me with a kind expression. The sort that frames someone's mouth, but not their eyes, and gesturing me to come on stage. I still don't look at my father, but my eyes fall on Haymitch instead. In his drunken haze, he is staring at me as though he's seen a ghost. His eyes are wide, lips a little parted; ruddy cheeks look pale under the blotches of alcohol vessels. My eyes move from him quickly too, and my nails bite into the flesh of my palm. _I am not Maysilee Donner_. I am Margaret Undersee. I am strong, I am not going to become another victim of the Hunger Games. But even as I think it to myself, the prospect of where I'm going looms up at me suddenly.

Tears want to sting my eyes, but the motion doesn't carry. I ascend the steps, lick my lips and smooth the front of my dress uselessly. I don't look at those faces in front of me, I look away distantly, and I can feel the pounding in my chest. She asks for volunteers, but there is only sound of breathy silence. She smiles brightly at me, and moves on.

"How about a round of applause to our newest tribute!"

The hands move slowly, the sound barely above a whisper, and something inside of me breaks. No one will miss me, none of these people care about me. I know it was better me than anyone else. I can feel the eyes of the crowd on me, and I finally flicker over the sea of faces. One sticks out, and I can barely make his eyes out. My jaw just tightens as I remember what he told me earlier. _You won't be going to the Capitol_. It almost makes me want to snort derisively, because look where I'm standing now. Gale Hawthorne. Look where I am, for all of his words and his apparent innate knowledge of how these Games work, the odds were most definitely not in my favour today. I look away from him quickly, back into nothing.

"Well, _ain't this grand_!" I'm not expecting the voice that suddenly sounds the slur. His steps thunder towards me unevenly, and I look at him with a slightly bewildered expression. Only slightly, because I can't seem to manage anything else without wanting to cry, "if she's anything like Maysilee, she's gonna have _guts_. More than _you._" His arm, around my shoulder now, spins me around as he yells at the crowd. He lets me go and staged forwards to a camera, "and more than _any of yo-_" He loses his footing and falls to the ground, knocking himself unconscious. I take in another deep breath and swallow. My poor father, I wish I could look at him.

With Haymitch on the ground, out cold, men with stretchers come and carry him off, as though they had been waiting for this. Effie is speaking, talking about how these occasions are always _so much fun_. I bite my cheek, I want this to be over, I want to be somewhere in secret so I can let everything I'm holding in out. "But there's more to come! It's time to see who the boy tribute will be for District 12!" Her hand moves to her hair, and she saunters to the remaining reaping ball. I don't watch her, but I see her hand enter the bowl and rummage around again. She grabs the first one her fingers touch, and scurries back to the podium. It is unfolded, and she leans towards the microphone.

"_Peeta Mellark_."

I look and see him break through the crowd, and I realise how unfair this is. Out of the people I could count as a friend, Peeta numbered in on there. The odds were not in either of our favours today, and the prospect of… being killed by Peeta suddenly loomed, clear and true. This was the boy I had seen in the town, reprimanded by his mother and made to wait outside of the store as she went inside. I gave him a piece of candy, and he had just smiled at me. But that wasn't the point he became my friend, that was two years ago. And it started off with a question about Katniss Everdeen.

I had seen him looking over most lunches, tentative and shifty, but I hadn't approached him. He normally met my eyes and looked away quickly; Katniss didn't even pay him any attention. It wasn't until we were fourteen, sitting in an art class, that he had taken the seat next to me. He started off by thanking me, about six years too late, for the gesture I had made all that time ago. That had broken the ice, and I automatically blushed and told him it was fine. We kept quiet for some time, and then his voice piped up again, "_does Katniss ever talk about boys?_" I remember being so surprised, that I had just stared at him. I told him we don't normally talk about much, but she doesn't mention anyone she has a crush on. He looked almost disappointed.

I happened to see his picture, and I was surprised at how good he was. With his stocky build, his strength, I would have never thought he was very good at art. I complimented him, and he told me he wished he was better at something like maths. I offered to help him out, if he tried to teach me to draw, and we struck up a tentative sort of friendship that sometimes saw him coming to my house when he could leave the bakery. Sometimes, recently, he hadn't come over and I had missed him briefly. And here we were, in the cruellest twist of fate.

He got to the stage, and our eyes met. I saw his panic, and I was sure my own alarm was reflected in my eyes. He is steady, emotionless, and terrified. Effie Trinket calls out for volunteers, but no one comes, again. I don't look at Peeta again, not after he comes to the stage, and my eyes look off at the greenery just beyond the borders of our district. My father's voice sounds again, close to me and over the microphones all at the same time, and the world seems to be swimming around me. The weight is crushing me all of a sudden. Peeta is next to me, all of these people in front of me. Twenty four of us go in. I swallow and my father's voice, tight and pained, tells us to shake hands.

I turn to him, biting my bottom lip, and his hand encompasses mine. I squeeze his fingers, and he squeezes mine back. The anthem plays as we turn back to the crowd, and my chest feels tight with the quick and panicked breaths I am suddenly taking. When will we leave this stage, when will I be away from these crowds of people.

I know my fate has been sealed, I am never going to see District 12 again.


	3. Treading Water

**disclaimer**; i couldn't quite get the flow to go right, but have a little bit of gadge ;D well. a little bit. a tiny bit. better than nothing. i worry i didn't get his character quite right but... oh well!

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Treading Water

The final strain of the anthem chimes in the air, and peacekeepers come to step on either side of us. I gulp down air, as though it's suddenly going to be wrenched from me. We are being guided to the Justice Building, a place I spent many hours running around on weekends where I went with my father to his work for a little while. It didn't hold the same appeal of hunting for unknown treasures anymore, it looked like a prison. It _felt_ like I was going to a prison. My mouth twitches slightly, but I am not going to cry. I know I won't cry, I tell myself I won't. I can't. I can't afford to come across as some weak thing, someone that needs protecting. Someone that can't hold themselves together, those are not the kind of people that win. Not that I think I'm going to win, I know I'm not, but I have to give myself a fighting chance. For my family, for my _mother_. She can't lose her daughter, I have to be strong.

I am strong.

I am escorted into an empty room; I don't see Peeta before the door closes because he's going to a different one. My eyes scan around it quickly, wondering if this is somewhere I have run into before to hide from my father's secretary as she chased me. I don't know. I am trying to distract myself from the fact I am completely alone right now and I could breakdown to my heart's content. I know this part; this is the part where people come in to see me. When people come to say goodbye as we leave to an almost certain death. I am not going to be tear streaked and emotional, I tell myself to hold it together. My hands twist the ends of my hair in my fists and I swallow, staring at the door and wondering if anyone was going to come and see me.

It seems as though someone heard my thoughts, because I hear the click of the latch, and there is my father. I have never seen such heartbreak on his face, such desolation. It was wretched, and a dry sound comes from my own throat. We cross the distance quickly as the door shuts, and I throw my arms around his neck as he squeezes me back, "Maggie, oh sweetheart." The use of my childhood nickname doesn't make the normal scowl come onto my face, I cling to it, I yearn it. I breathe him in, I try and remember the way he used to make me laugh. When he was home, how he would soothe me when I cried. When my mother couldn't deal with my wails, and she'd call for someone to help her. My father, I completely adore him. And I will never see him again.

"I love you, daddy," I whimper, eyes dry and mouth muffled against the jacket of his suit, "I'll try my best to come home for mom, but…"

"No," his voice is harsh, and his arms hold me all the tighter, "no. I will do everything, _anything_, for you darling. You'll come back, I won't let you down." I nod my head, but we both know the promise is empty. We both know that his power is limited, we both know that he can't do more for me than any other parent. Whisper a quiet prayer and hope for the best. I pull back kissing his cheek and feeling the moisture of his tears on his skin. A peacekeeper knocks on the door and tells us we have a minute left.

"Maggie, you're bright. There is so much that you can learn… Just do what you can," he whispers urgently, hand smoothing my hair from where I crushed it against him. He kisses the tip of my nose and cups my face in his hands, "your mother and I love you so much, so much. I wish I could have… protected you better…" Did he think this was his fault, I shake my head at him, but the door's opening.

"Don't blame yourself, daddy. Please," I call, voice strangling. I want to tell him to take me away, to steal me out of this place. To stop me from going, "please…" The door shuts and I have to take in quick gulps of air, and I have to hold it down. I have to hold down everything. Keep it inside, keep it for when there are no more cameras. I doubt anyone else will come, but the door is opening after some whispered discussions outside. I turn around, arms crossed protectively around my torso. Katniss. Oh, I didn't think… I always considered her a friend, but I didn't think she saw me in that same light. Our eyes meet, and her mouth is a serious and straight line. I don't approach her, not the same way I approached my father.

"Thank you, Madge," she chokes out. She sees the confusion in my face and she stands there. She looks so pretty in her blue dress, with her hair all done up in that fashion. I feel like I should tell her, but there are no words, "for being there. You're a good friend, a better friend…"

I step over to her, and take her hands in mine, managing to whisper, "Don't say thank you for that, Katniss. That's what friends are for." I smile at her, but the motion is short lived. Her eyes are serious, looking away from me, for a second, and then back.

"I've seen you run, Madge, you're quick. And you'll be good at hiding," I don't know if she means it, or if she's trying to find a way of making it sound better for me. Making the odds shift in my favour. But, from experience, the odds are very fickle things. I just nod mutely and she looks at me, "I know you're not careers, but you and Peeta should look out for each other. You'll be better as a team." I swallow and squeeze her hands, going on my toes to kiss her cheek. She looks a little startled at the gesture, and there's that old knock on the door.

"Look after yourself, Katniss. You should go and see Peeta," I start, gauging her reaction. She just looks bewildered and opens her mouth uselessly. But after a brief pause, I add on, "and can you… can you check up on my family when you take the strawberries over? Just… make sure they're doing okay." She nods her head, more surprised by those words than she was the kiss, and then the door is opening again. She looks like she wants to say something to me, but the words seem to die on her lips, and she just offers me a rare and brief smile. And the door shuts. I hear her voice talk to someone else, and then she fades away.

I wait for the peacekeepers to open the door, and take me to wherever I'm going now. The train station, I know that, but I don't want to think of it. My teeth worry over my lips, not caring if split the skin. Sure enough, it's opening again. But the door way isn't filled with two bodies, clad in white. Just the one, in a slightly too tight blue shirt, and pants – he is impossibly tall, and his expression impossibly grave. I don't say anything, but he steps inside as the door shuts behind him. There's a moment of awkward silence, I'm sure we're both thinking through the last conversation we had. I know this isn't the time to hold grudges, so I ignore the need to snap at him, and just wait patiently.

"Shit." That's the first word. My eyebrow quirks slightly, and I see his hand lift to the back of his neck, "I wasn't going to come and see you." He's making a great impression on me right now. Not. I open my mouth, ready to tell him to forget it, but his hand is dropping back to his side, "I'm sorry. For what I said. I'm really fucking sorry. I didn't… I was just mad because of what you said and I didn't think." He swallows, looking at me briefly before his eyes turn to his feet. And just like that, I realise he was someone I could have liked, if we'd been given a few more years for him to get over his prejudices. And for me to learn to choose my words carefully.

"It's okay, we were all on edge," I offer and shrug my shoulders, "I shouldn't have been so dismissive." I see the surprise on his face, and then the briefest of smiles on his lips.

"I was going to come in with Katniss, but I figured…"

"… it wasn't very manly to apologize in front of her?"

He laughs, unexpectedly, and when the sound fades out – he meets my eyes. I feel my stomach jolt slightly, and when he crosses the distance to wrap his arms around my shoulders, I don't push him off. My own snake around his waist and I close my eyes. It's different, receiving comfort from someone you thought hated you. Who you normally only exchanged snapping words with. He doesn't say anything, he just pulls me in tighter and I can smell smoke and apples on his shirt. I guess this is another thing to want to come back for, another one of these. It almost quenches the fear that has been twisting my gut, and I don't want to leave it. It feels safe, it is safe.

The knock on the door jolts his grip and mine, and it tightens before he lets go.

"Good luck, Madge, I hope…" he meets my eyes again, and my smile is more like a grimace as I nod. His hands reach down, taking one of mine. It makes me feel so tiny, and it doesn't help the onslaught of fear. A hand leaves mine, and he moves it across my forehead, sweeping up my hair, "I hope you come back."

The door opens, and he's stepping away. And I feel like I'm drowning and nothing I can do helps me gasp for air. He glances back once more before the door closes, and I know he can see the terror on my expression all of a sudden. And then he's gone. Like everyone else. My torso heaves as I try to breathe, and I press a hand over my mouth. What am I going to do? I try and make myself kick up, find some ray of hope I can grasp, but there's nothing.

I'm drowning, and there's nothing I can grab onto.


	4. Atrophy

**disclaimer**; sorry this took so long. i received an interesting comment about switching this to someone else's perspective. and i think i may change it to gale's once the games are on ;D i will give no more informations.

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Atrophy

The peacekeepers help me leave the inside of that sleek black car, and then it hit me again – I was never going to see District 12 again. I wasn't going to inhale the smell of the Mellark bakery, taste those sweets that rotted your teeth, read my father's books, play my piano, eat peaches from the garden… The list was endless, all the things I'd never do again spun in front of me as I was guided to the train station. I'd been here before, though never to go in the Tribute Train, with my father. But I had never seen it like this.

Swarming around the train were cameras, attached to faces, and flashing in my direction. I wince initially, because the flashes are so unwarranted and unnecessary when every step they are documenting is one that I'm taking closer to a certain doom. I am made to stand in the entrance, and Peeta is suddenly at my side. The peacekeepers step away, and I can see our faces on the screens as we're filmed and scrutinised. Peeta still looks hollow, like he's been crying, but I take in a deep breath. It's not enough to will myself to be stronger; I had to _make_ myself stronger.

So I smile, dimples curving my cheeks, and lift a hand to wave. They go nuts. Peeta doesn't look in my direction, I feel sick for playing up to these ridiculous notions the Capitol want of us. This was not a festivity, this was a slaughterhouse. But I wasn't going to go down without a fight. Eventually, and after adding some blown kisses, we're allowed inside. And I feel sick to my stomach because of my actions. The doors slide shut behind us, and the train immediately begins it's speedy journey to the Capitol. I glance at him, and reach a hand out to hold his.

The train is very fancy, richer than the rooms in the Justice Building, and for a while – we both just stand there. Peeta's fingers finally close over mine, and we don't let go when Effie Trinket bustles in through one of the corridors to our left. We both turn to look at her, and she smiles brightly, "Go and look at your chambers! _Everything_ is at your disposal! Wear and do whatever you please, but supper is in an hour!" Her eyes drop to our hands, and back at us individually, but she doesn't say anything but wave her hands at us so we get moving.

I'm reluctant to let go of his hand, small acts of comfort seem to be something I need. But Peeta is loosening his hold, and I move my hand back. I look at him again, and I want to apologize, but he's already moving away from me and to his chambers. I sigh softly, shakily, and my own feet guide me to the door to my room for this journey. I'm surprised that it's quite so large, seeing as we're on a train, but then I suppose that the Capitol have enough wealth to make this sort of thing possible.

Bedroom. Dressing room. Bathroom. I unpin my aunt's mockingjay, and place it on the dressing table carefully. I strip away the white dress, the _pretty_ dress, and rummage around the drawers for something to wear. I'd normally choose something large and baggy that I can crawl into; when I'm unwell it's my favourite sort of clothing. And right now, I'm as sick as a dog. But I decide to make an effort, keep to Effie's good books, and I find a mint green dress. I adjust the sleeves as I pull it over my head, and then I gather my hair up into a messy bun.

The pin is slipped back onto the chest of the dress, fastened securely. We're allowed one thing from the district, and this is mine. The mockingjay. It's always struck me as a strange choice for a pin, I know the use of mockingjays during the rebellion. My father told me it was an _heirloom_ before, but I never dwelled on it. I ignore the thoughts behind the meaning of the little gold pin, and decide to explore a little. I look around the various different corners of the room, going to the window, and I observe Panem as it passes us at such an insane rate.

There's a knock on the door behind me, and I turn around as Effie opens it, telling me that supper is ready. I move away from the window seat and make my way over to her, offering her a brief smile. She tells me I was _fabulous_ for the cameras, and I thank her. It feels empty, my words flat, but it doesn't seem to deter her. From the shaky, narrow corridor, we come into a wonderful smelling dining cart. There's Peeta, and a table full of expensive dishes, similar to the sort that we have at home. I meet his eyes, and offer him a brief smile. The ghost of one touches his lips.

"Where's Haymitch?" she asks, sounding bright and chipper. Peeta answers, voice soft, telling her that he was off taking a nap. She seems relieved, though she offers him the excuse that it had been an exhausting day. I exchange a glance with Peeta, but he is staring at the table resolutely. I sigh, and I hope he's not going to keep ignoring me for the entirety of the journey. I know it would be easier for the both of us, but I _need_ him to be my friend right now – not my potential killer. And I know he needs me to be his too. We only have so long before the arena.

"So, Margaret is a beautiful name," Effie makes small talk as the thick carrot soup is ladled into the bowls. I keep my hands neatly folded on my lap, and my gaze travels over to her, "It's very classic, very old world."

"It is. It means 'pearl'," my father showed me once, in a ragged old book. Effie laughs lightly, and I offer her a frown. I don't quite understand her mirth. Or I didn't, until she looks at me.

"Oh, it's just that if you apply enough pressure to coal it turns to pearls!" I'm fairly sure she has her information mixed up, and my brows raise as I look at Peeta. For the first time since coming onto the train, he is smirking into his soup. It just prompts another similar expression from me, and I begin spooning manageable mouthfuls of the thick, orange meal. It's almost sickly sweet, but it fills the nervous void in my stomach.

She keeps up a very one sided, animated, conversation with two very unwilling individuals. It's not enough to deter her from speaking though, which I am grateful for. The sound of her voice distracts me from the endless and pity-less voice in my mind. As we finish up the meal of lamb chops and mashed potato, she does say something that catches my attention. And probably not in a very good way either.

"At least you two have decent manners," she smiles at us both, and both Peeta and I look at her, "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." I know the pair who went last year, they were from the seam. They had probably never seen that much food before. A feeling of indignation settles in my stomach, mind running over Katniss and Gale, and my lips purse. I feel like telling her, but instead I decide that I'm going to do my own version of upsetting her digestion.

My mother would be _horrified_ to see me eating like this. Not just my mother, Saph as well. Thankfully, neither of them are here, so I am quite happy to defend the poorer majority of the district with this single action. Effie must have thought I was such a polite and sweet girl, too. I probably should have paced myself, because even though Effie's pursed expression was enough reward, I ate entirely too much. I'm accustomed to this food, Peeta's queasiness is down to the fact it is richer than he is used to. But I didn't pace myself very well.

As the meal ends, Effie tells us we're to go and watch all of the reapings in another compartment, so Peeta and I trudge out behind her. It's a comfortable room, the television is hooked up to the wall, and the couches are laid out in front of it. I take one, and Peeta sits next to me. We grab hands again, and I hold on tightly, glancing at him. He isn't looking in my direction, and I follow his gaze to the screen as it comes to life, with District 1. Career tributes.

The small, lithe, girl from District 2 catches my attention, as does the red haired girl from 3. It trudges on through the Districts, slowly but surely. A small, wide eyed girl from 11 is reaped – no one volunteers. My mind tracks to Prim, and I know that Katniss would have taken her place. I look at her, standing on that stage, looking so small and meek. Maybe she didn't have someone who loved her like Katniss. It's almost heart wrenching. Her fellow tribute is a strong, large, boy. He looks like a completely blank slate, and I'm not sure how to read him.

Our district is next. And I see myself walking up to the stage. I look terrified, a lot more terrified than I realised I had looked. I can see my father physically recoil too, and I wish I hadn't looked. My eyes duck down to my knees, and Peeta moves his hand from mine, and instead puts his arm around my shoulders. The commentators inform everyone that I am the mayor's daughter, and it is an honour for me to represent my district. I look up in time to see Peeta and I shake hands, and I let out a long and slow breath.

"My wig looks _awful_," Effie's voice cuts through, and Peeta and I both look at her, "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behaviour."

Surprisingly, I feel Peeta laugh next to me. "He was drunk," he informs her, "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," I add, catching Peeta's eye and giggling a little. Effie makes a derisive, dismissive sound. I can't help but laugh a little bit, catching Peeta's eye and we both lose it. It's almost hysterical, but we manage to calm down as Effie hisses at us.

"How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!" It's enough that we both stop in our amused sounds, and look at her, slightly reprimanded. Haymitch has impeccable timing, staggering into the compartment, thickly asking if he has missed supper. Promptly followed with him throwing up the contents of his stomach, and falling into it.

I ignore the words she snips at us before she moves away, and stare at Haymitch. If he was our lifeline, then Peeta and I were definitely in a very sorry position.

* * *

_A/N I know that I have essentially kept the dialogue and everything the same as in the books, but it's only for this part really, I just like that sort of interaction, and I'm trying to gauge how I'm going to do this a little bit 3_


	5. Flesh and Bone

**disclaimer**; i am sorry this took so long, if you guys are still around, thank you so much. i am not worthy

* * *

Flesh and Bone

I'm on my feet before Peeta, pacing over to where Haymitch is lying with his face in the vomit. For a horrible minute, I think he may have choked, but his arms move and I let out a sigh of relief. The smell of what he expelled from his mouth suddenly hits me as I crouch closer, and my stomach churns uncomfortably. It was as though the white liquor was all he had ingested, that it was turning his stomach into nothing but vulgar mush. I hear Peeta's footsteps pass me, and he takes one of Haymitch's arms. He tries to coax him into standing on his own, but achieving nothing. I help him, taking the other, and pressing my palm against Haymitch's chest to try and push him too.

Between our insistences, his legs finally seem to kick in, and he's moving by himself. As he stands, he seems disorientated, leaning heavily against me. I move the hand from his chest and to his arm, trying to push him away in case he gets any of the disgusting vomit on me, "Somethin' smells real bad." I catch Peeta's eye from Haymitch's other side, but he's not looking at me. He's trying to pull Haymitch away and I realise he's guiding him to where his bedroom is. I keep my hands on Haymitch, keeping him upright, and let Peeta be the one to take most of the weight off of me. I feel a little guilty for doing that to him, but he is shouldering it without any question.

"We should get you cleaned up, Haymitch," he offers, and I nod my head, not making a sound. I walk a little ahead, a hand still on our mentor's arm as Peeta basically carries him through. My hand reaches out to open the door, and Peeta immediately turns to set him on the bed. I shake my head at him, and nod towards the bathroom. His mattress was covered with an expensive, embroidered, quilt. It would be a shame to tarnish it with the contents of Haymitch's stomach. I help Peeta to the bathroom, opening the door in any case and then switching on the water. I start to unbutton his shirt for him, ignoring the slippery feel of what had come out of his mouth against the buttons.

"It's okay, if you want to leave it, I can do the rest," the offer makes me look at Peeta, and I smile at him with a shake of my head. It wasn't fair to just dump Peeta with him, and I was unaccustomed to such bodily fluids. Perhaps not as stagnant as this, but there were times my mother would take a turn for the worse. Sometimes when she said she was going to stop taking the morphling, but her body would reject the idea, I'd go and see her and find she hadn't made it to the en suite bathroom in time. I try and push the thoughts from my mind as I adjust the temperature of the shower, but I can feel Haymitch look at me with bleary eyes.

"Said we should go our own ways, Maysie," I pause, not looking at him. My pulse picks up again and my jaw clenches. I can feel Peeta looking between Haymitch, sitting on the floor with his head resting on the edge of the bathtub, and me – sitting on the lid of the toilet and leaning over to where the taps are, "I want you to leave." I draw back sharply, looking at him with a stony expression. He meets my eyes with his unfocused greys, his mouth lolling open, and then he repeats himself again, but with more force, "Leave. **Now**." I swallow, looking at Peeta. My legs snap straight and I bite my lips, stepping away from the bathroom and Haymitch.

"It's okay, Madge. I can clean him up on my own." The blonde boy's soft words don't really reach me, because Haymitch is staring at me harshly, and I don't know what to do with myself. Other than move backwards, out of the bathroom door, and closing it. Then I almost run to my own chambers, slamming myself inside, and drawing in a deep breath. This was all too real. My mentor can only see my aunt in my face, and he doesn't want me anywhere near him. Peeta is my friend, and now I'm going to be thrown into an arena – expected to kill, or to be killed. My throat feels tight, and I cross to the bed, throwing myself on it face down.

I can't even cry, everything just feels painful. And what am I, but a creature of flesh and bone? My heart beats and it hurts, I'm not made of steel. I reach across the top to where I threw my dress, pulling it to my face and trying to find something that reminds me of home. And all that clings to it is the smell of smoke and apples, and I don't think of home. I think of those two minutes of kindness Gale Hawthorne extended to me, and finally the moisture falls. I curl myself around it, and sob painfully, endlessly. What I'd give for someone to make everything feel right again, to stop this from happening. I finally fall asleep, and though fitful, at least it stops the endless shake of my shoulders.

* * *

The next morning, my throat feels raw, as though rubbed with sandpaper, and my eyes are heavy and thick. I opt to shower before leaving for breakfast, climbing under the steaming droplets of water and scrubbing myself free of yesterday. Was it only yesterday that I had woken up in my bed, been in my home, and tried one of the strawberries that Katniss brought over? I switch off the stream, pulling a towel into the cubicle to wrap my hair up with, and finally move out to dry everything else and then go into my chambers to change into an outfit for breakfast. I wear a sky blue dress, and keep my hair loose to dry, fastening my pin on. I step outside, walking to the dining car carefully, and see Effie walking around with a mug of something and Haymitch sitting at the table looking amused.

I notice that Effie is whispering to herself, and nothing pretty or ladylike or of very good etiquette. I glance at Peeta who just looks a little pink around the edges, and take a seat. I'm given a plate of food, the likes of which I've never had for breakfast before. I look around the spread, and reach out for an apple, taking a knife and cutting a slice from it. My eyes go over the orange juice, and then the mug with brown liquid in it. Hot chocolate! I'd only ever had it once, when I went to the Capitol with my father, and it was brought up to the room I was confined to as he went and networked. I pick it up, setting down my apple, and taking a little sip. Delicious. I know that we are supposed to be eating, getting our strength up, because these are the _Hunger_ Games after all. But the idea of consuming so much in the morning…

I notice Peeta nodding at my plate, and I look at his own, seeing that he has eaten about half of everything on there. I sigh to myself, and cut another slice of apple. And then break it up with mouthfuls of bread, potato, ham and egg. I save the hot chocolate for last, because I want to savour it, and instead opt for the juice drink. I hardly reach the halfway mark when my stomach starts to hurt, so I put my knife and fork down for a moment and lift the mug back up. My eyes follow Haymitch, seeing the amount of spirit he keeps adding to what he is drinking, and see that he's not eating at all. No wonder his vomit was so vile yesterday. And all he is doing is drinking, he's not speaking to us.

He's not even looking at me. I wonder if the idea of who my aunt was is enough to make him want _me_ dead too.

"Aren't you supposed to be… advising us?" Peeta asks, tentative, a little unsure if he should be saying this to him. I look at him for a moment, and then Haymitch. He takes another, long, drink from his glass and smacks his lips together in an obnoxious fashion. I wouldn't say I dislike Haymitch, but I don't appreciate his lackadaisical attitude to this. I tell myself it's a front, he is the mentor for District 12, and he was the last one to survive these Games.

"How about this. Stay alive." The response makes me blink, and my eyes contract slightly. I stare at him wordlessly, trying to gauge if he is being serious in his words or not. Peeta seems to think he is, because I'm startled to see his hand dart out and hit the glass in Haymitch's hand, sending it to the ground.

"This is not funny," he hisses, hardness in his expression. Haymitch seems taken aback, and his hand moves backwards, angling towards Peeta's jaw. Peeta goes flying from his chair, and I see Haymitch turn and look at the spirits. I react quickly, grabbing the bottle and springing from the chair, holding it behind my back as I step away. He seems surprised that it has gone from in front of him, and looks at me and then Peeta. His eyes squint and he licks his lips.

"Seems I got a couple of kids with some spirit in them," I swallow, watching Peeta move from the ground and massaging his jaw gingerly. He goes for the ice in the bowl, but Haymitch tells him not to. A bruise shows he fought with another tribute. And though it's against the rules, apparently the allure of not being caught will make it look even more impressive. And then he's looking at me, "And you. You're quick ain't ya. You got good reflexes." He seems to want to add something else on, hand stroking his chin and his gaze lingering on me. I almost feel uncomfortable, holding the bottle and unsure of what to do now. He nods crookedly to the space in the middle of the room, "Stand over there, I want to measure you both up."

I only move my hands from behind my back, I keep the bottle firmly in my grasp. Peeta and I meet where he indicated, my head popping just over his shoulder. He is broad, strong, a wrestler for the school team. I am smaller, slighter, and next to him I must look positively breakable.

"You're both healthy, you seem like you have your wits about you," he ambles over, squeezing Peeta's arms, trying to take the bottle from my grasp, though I'm sure he's not trying all that hard because I manage to keep it between my hands. He steps back and looks at us individually, "Not hopeless at all. You'll be even better once your stylists get you."

"And parade us around naked?" I blurt out, and he just laughs unkindly, shrugging his shoulders. He tells me they'll do what they want, and that I am not going to resist. Neither of us are. We're going to do everything they want us to do, no 'buts' or 'ifs'. He comes up to me again, yanking the bottle from my hands, and then looking at us both – but mainly me, "I will stay sober, or sober enough to help you. But you do _exactly_ what I say." It was a better position than we'd been in for some time. We both nod, and he squints at us.

"We're pulling up into the station soon. You'll be in your stylist's hands. And, if you are made to go naked," and now he looks at me again, "You will say nothing. Got it? Make an impression." Almost as soon as he says it, the windows are plunged into darkness, and I realise that we're going through the mountains that proved to be the rebel's downfall in the uprising. I grab Peeta's hand again, walking us over to the window, and suddenly wincing as we're in the brightness of the Capitol. I'd seen this before, but not like this. I can feel Peeta's awe in the tightness of his fingers against mine. We can see the people, everything looks so fake and strange. Peeta moves his free hand, waving at them, and I follow suit. We both smile and watch them go crazy as they recognise the tribute train.

The train finally pulls to a stop, and we drop our hands and loosen the hold of our fingers. I look up at him and quickly hug his middle, "I wish I could say everything was going to be okay Peeta." I let him go and I see his smile.

"Me too, Madge," he states simply, and I take in a deep breath. I couldn't kill Peeta Mellark. But that just left the question, could he kill me?

* * *

_a/n the next chapter will be from gale's perspective and serve as a summary of the opening ceremony and the interviews. _


	6. Icarus

**disclaimer; **it has literally been _months_ since i have done _any_ writing, least of all for this story. so if this is a little tetchy - i hope you can forgive me. this is from gale's point of view and i am not sure if i have it nailed D: anyway, hope you enjoy.

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Icarus

"I promised her I'd go and see how her family's doing. Do you want to come with me or not?" Katniss's words snap somewhere in the back of my mind. Somewhere where my thoughts aren't dominated with the flyers that are streaming from the mayor's house, imploring everyone to rally around and make sure she comes home. Somewhere where I don't see her cherubic, smiling, school picture plastered wherever I turn around. I never knew the mayor could help kids out in the arena, that he could afford this. God knows how many seam _rats_ had died in there, kids he could have helped... I shrug and the motion elicits a roll of Katniss's eyes, "Whatever. I'll see you later. It's the opening ceremony today..." Since when did Katniss give a fuck about the opening ceremony?

Jealousy throbs through me, and I watch her braid bounce over her shoulder as she sashays from me with a basket of strawberries and straight down the dusty labyrinth of seam alleyways to the pristine, straight, streets of the merchant area. I linger for a moment, just long enough to see her round one of the invisible shortcuts, and think of Margaret Undersee. How my ice had never frozen her and how touching her was like flying too close to the sun. She had been small, sweet. I almost lost her in the cloak of my sudden embrace. Why had I hugged her? I had barely spoken more than two words to her unless it was to antagonise the girl, why had I felt that need to protect her?

Because as I close my eyes, and rub my face, I can see the plea in her blue eyes as she looked at me. _Help me_. Undersee was never going to get out of there, never going to come back home. I _felt _it. I felt it so keenly that it made me feel_ angry_. Katniss had been insistently going between the mayoral house and the bakery. She never wanted to be in the town, not for more than business. It was always in and out, but she was making herself cosy. The Undersee housekeeper knew us now, by name not just by sight. She would greet us and offer us little bites to eat, but I never accepted it. I don't want to be there, I don't want to remember Madge, I don't want to think about her. But I do, and it is starting to get to me.

Swinging the bag with a couple of rabbits we caught, I sigh and make my way to the Everdeen house first. Giving Celosia one, Primrose runs out and hugs me and asks if I'm going to watch the opening with them. I shake my head, because I don't want to be at home. I'm not scared of how I'll react, I'm wary of if they'll notice. I ask Katniss's mother if she needs any help with anything, but she's already looking at me with eyes that tell me she's reading my actions like a pages of a book and talks to me with a voice that encourages me to head back home. I just want to see her, just one time, get it out of my system. Even if it is on screen, even though I know she won't look like the Madge I said goodbye to.

It's why I find myself sitting on the couch instead of standing in the kitchen, helping my mother out, It's why I'm letting her skin the rabbits and prepare the vegetables. Posy is there too, because I'm not going to get her watch this. I refuse to let her see anything to do with the Games, not until she's old enough. I wish that age would never come, but one day it will. None of my siblings are growing to grow up as quickly as I had to, though. Even though Rory is sitting at my side and pretending to be interested in what they're babbling on about on screen. Vick is with us too, but spinning a top on the wooden ground instead of paying anything any attention. I'm not sure how much time I'm sitting there, feeling stiff as a board, when it starts.

It's all glittery, it's all a farce. As usual, District 4 leave little to the imagination. District 7 too, an array of leaves that just cover everything. Sex sells, in the Capitol. The trudge on past, my attention on skimming them. And then, I can see something in the background. Something glowing, orange. The commentary falters, and sudden excitement picks up. Everyone goes crazy, the cameras are focused on nothing but Madge and Peeta. They're on fire, the orange in her pale golden hair makes her glow. Her makeup is flawless, she almost... Doesn't look like the girl I saw. She is smouldering, the flames lick over her and her eyes flash as she looks around. There's an easy smile on her face, her hand links with Peeta's and they raise them up together.

"Wow, I've never seen that before." My attention snaps away, to my brother, and I nod mutely. I sincerely doubt we ever will again, either. I cast Madge out of my thoughts as I abruptly move to the kitchen to help my mother. She doesn't ask about the aggressive way I chop the vegetables, the way I throw them in the pot. I just blaze, like Madge and Peeta, for the rest of the evening because I can't pretend that she isn't there, that she isn't lingering.

* * *

I can't stop thinking about her. I can't make it stop. When I go to school, I look out for her blonde hair and I remember where she is. In the Capitol, preparing herself for the interviews tonight. Stupidly, I wonder if she's thinking about me. I'm grateful that the last words and moments we had were more pleasant than they had ever been in the past, even if it took her feet walking to an almost certain doom to provoke that from me. Catnip notices my distraction, but she doesn't say anything. I guess she figures that I'll figure it out on my own – I normally do. But not this time. I feel like she must have done when she stuck her foot in one of my snares, trapped and coiled up, limp and completely out of my depth.

She got a nine, a training score of nine. I didn't expect it, I don't think anyone did. What can Madge _do_? If I had been Reaped, the snares would have gotten me a good score. Katniss's archery would have achieved an even better one. But she managed to get a nine, it was amazing. I wish I had spoken to her, found out what she was good at. Beggar's can't be choosers, and I chose this path and now I'm begging that I had another chance.

But I'm being stupid. It's just the shock of the mayor's daughter being Reaped getting to me, the cornflower blue eyes that seem to follow me wherever I walk. People talk about her too, they say how _sweet_ she is, how _quiet_ she was. I never knew her as more than a prissy little princess, stuck up in her turret and sometimes gracing us with her presence. Until now. That's why I'm here; standing at her backdoor again thought I know she won't open. Katniss told me that she was going to head to the bakery, asked me to wait for her. But she's taking a while and I don't have all day. The interviews are tonight and I'm not going to hang around and wait for her while she bonds with the Mellarks. Knocking on the wood roughly, I almost groan when they take more than three seconds to answer.

My attention moves away, to the spacious garden behind me. Garden seems too small a word, this land is ridiculously vast. The food we could grow here... A tremulous voice suddenly sounds with a simple, "Yes?"

The way I jump, it was as though President Snow had opened the door in front of me. Actually, that would have startled me less than who I saw as my neck snapped back around. A frail, blonde, woman. Her hair is thin, long, trailing over one shoulder as she supports her weight on the door. The bags under her eyes, the weathered expression, belie someone older than her years. The lines of her face give away who this is, Madge's mother. I'm stuck for words and dumbly thrust the basket out to her, "Sorry, ma'am, I just came by to bring you these." She looks down at them and smiles at me, nodding for me to bring them in. I'd protest under normal circumstances, unwilling to step foot in the grandeur and drag in my sludge. But it looks as though the weight of the fruit would likely snap her arm.

"Just put them there," she whispers, and I do as I'm told. I'm happy to leave without payment and take the extra from Saph the next time we come, but she speaks again, "Come with me." My eyes widen helplessly, I swallow before talking.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Undersee, but I really need to... head back home." If she hears me, she does a great impression of someone who doesn't. I can't do anything but walk through her though the sprawling house. The exquisite kitchen my mother could lose herself in for hours, the plush carpets that make me acutely aware of the filth on my boots. Pictures hang, of people I recognise and people I don't. Sometimes there's one of Madge, and I try and imagine her walking through here. I can't, it's all so big and empty and yet... Mrs Undersee makes a sudden turn between these huge wooden doors and into a room that is large and well furnished. The piano, _that _piano. I realise how quiet it was, and that's because I always associate her home with music. Sweet melodies, her fingers never seem to miss a key as they grace over it.

"Would you watch her with me?" I look over at her again, standing there in an expensive robe, surrounded by wealth, but looking completely lost. Looking just how I feel, out of sync with everything, "It's lonely without her, I miss her very much. I'm sure that you would prefer to go home. But if you don't mind making an exception, I would be grateful if you would watch her with me."

I'm flummoxed. Never in my wildest dreams. No, not even dreams. Never in my wildest, fly away, thoughts about a world where I can openly tell the Capitol to screw itself and watch it do just that, did I ever think that I would be tentatively moving to sit in the ridiculously comfortable and not lumpy couch in the mayor's house. Sitting with his wife. I wait for it to be a practical joke, but she looks so pathetically happy I know this is really happening.

However much it wants me to sink into it, I can't quite... Adjust myself. I'm tense, and I want to make my excuses, but the interviews start and her fingers are pressed to her lips as she drinks everything in. What is her deal? Is she sick? Madge hid this well. I guess I didn't know her at all. _I guess you never will know her at all_. I look away before she notices me staring, and to the screen. This is more tedious than the opening ceremony, though my heart twinges at the little girl from 11. The seat looks so big around her...

But if she's from 11, that means that 12 is coming. I hear her mother gasp as her name is spoken out loud, and it hits me how surreal this is. I am sitting in a seat in _her_ house, with _her _mother. The infernal, beautiful, piano _she_ plays is right there. But she is miles away, walking on the stage in a dress the same blue as the inside of a flame. I don't know how to describe it, but it nips in at her slim waist and seems to shimmer with her steps. They changed her hair from the natural, soft, waves. It's pulled back into an intricate ball on the side of her hair and decorated ornately. Her mother's hands are trembling, and I just keep perfectly still.

"Before we start, Margaret, can I just say you look _beautiful_! Doesn't she, everybody! Look at her, our little sparkler!" Madge blushes furiously and laughs prettily, shaking her head as she takes her seat at his side, "Honestly. You made a spectacular entrance and you're just keeping it up! Amazing. So, a little birdie told me you're the mayor's daughter, I bet nothing here impresses you."

"On the contrary, I find the Capitol incredible. I have only come a few times in the past; it's an honour to be here again. Everything is so mesmerising. I love the fashions," with that, she strokes a hand over her dress and smiles at him brilliantly. This isn't Madge; Katniss told me she never took an interest in any of this. This is some poor version. The Capitol friendly one. There is whooping and cheering from the audience, and she turns her pretty face to them with the accentuated, smoky, eyes and waves her slim fingers to them. They go crazy and she looks back at Caesar, "I didn't think people would be that excited to see me! I'm nothing special."

"Of course you are, everyone has been dying to find out about the girl who came out in fire," he smiles and leans to her, "I tell you, my heart _stopped_. What did you think about it? You must have known what an impression you were leaving on all of us. You burned your way, if I may, into our brains." People laugh, as does Madge, covering her mouth and shrugging gently.

"Well, at first I was scared of being burned alive," this time people laugh at her, but she just maintains her smile, "I couldn't believe it. Cinna is a genius; I think he made the costume with a victor in mind." The confidence doesn't sound sick, irritating, coming from her lips. She manages to sound sincere, genuine, and it's inspiring. Everyone loves it, everyone in there loves it. Her mother just loves seeing her on the screen. "You know, I'm wearing some tonight." Caesar gasps and encourages her to stand up while clapping his hands, the audience join in and Madge rises up. She turns in a full circle and the bottom alights.

"Mrs Undersee, I really should go." I rise to my feet, and I see her eyes look at me as I shift awkwardly. Glancing back at the screen the interview is ongoing and I find I'm rooted to the spot. They're talking about boys, and she giggles, shifting in her seat and looking more uncomfortable than I have seen her. Her glances are furtive, and Caesar finally asks if there's someone. Someone special, someone at home. What am I expecting? Her to say my name? She won't, because her flames would burn me if I get too close.

"P...Peeta Mellark. We're dating."


	7. Après Moi

**disclaimer**; allow me to reiterate i am still getting back into the swing of this story and i'm fairly certain my writing style for it has changed a fair amount but i promise i'll get the hang of it again soon! thanks for sticking around. as always reviews are appreciated if you have ideas or anything to ask c: xo

* * *

Après Moi

_God dammit, I stammered_. Swallowing, I look at my lap as my cheeks blaze and chew on my bottom lip. Everyone is watching me, everyone heard what I just admitted to Caesar, that I not only have feelings – but am dating – Peeta Mellark. Peeta didn't know I was going to play this angle, he thought we were going to come out here as a unified front, as friends. But friends don't cut it. Friends can become adversaries, when it comes to surviving. I needed to give him something else, something more. Tributes in love, that's something that I haven't seen before – something I doubt anyone will see again. It will make everything hurt more, and from what I know of Capitol residents, there's nothing they love more than more drama to spice up these Games for them. Am I just feeding into their frenzy?

Yes. I almost hate myself for this, I hate that I have sold out. That my father wants me to come home, but I need to be realistic. Out of the pair of us, I'm not going to be the one seeing it through to the end. He has more waiting for him, he has... His family. I need to give him a way out, because I'm not going to have one. Peeta needs the best chance I can get him, and if it's being my boyfriend – that can only make them love him more. The collective gasp reminds me of where I am, and I shyly look back at the presenter as he shakes his head, melancholy and sympathetic. We both know that only one of us is going to come out alive, and it really is a tragedy with a love so young. A tale so sweet, that it leaves the residual sugar coating my teeth and I feel nauseous.

"Now, that really is something," he says softly, looking at the audience. I chance a look too, and I see that some people are dabbing their eyes with embroidered silk, "He came here with you." I nod my head mutely, all mirth gone from our conversation, all good humour. Peeta Mellark, the boy who came here with me. I want to look at where I know he's standing; I want to see his expression. Everyone at home will know this is an utter fabrication. I can remember the smell of smoke and apples against my skin. _I hope they know it's a lie_.

"Some luck, huh?" I smile, and he touches my hand softly, gravely. Our time is up, and he gives me a hug before I move away from the stage, waving my hand at everyone as they rise to their feet and applaud me away. Peeta is being called up, but as I pass him – I catch his eye and a lump rises to my throat. There was something in it, confusion and maybe hurt. He doesn't understand, he doesn't comprehend why I chose to do this. I'll explain it to him, when he lets me. I can't escape; we have to wait for his interview to be finished with. And I watch him as he seats himself opposite Caesar. As they start talking, I feel a hand on my elbow and look up at Haymitch. His eyes are clear, there's no small bottle weighing down one of his pockets. He is completely sober, true to his word.

"That took guts, Undersee. I can see your angle," his voice is low, eyes darting around as he leans closer to me, "I knew I saw her in you." I don't need to ask to figure out who he means, but I wish the comparison would end. My elbow moves from his grasp and I shake my head softly.

"I'm not Maysilee Donner," the name slips from my lips like a slap to his face, and he recoils from me slightly, "I want Peeta to get out of there, Haymitch. We're just kids from 12. Cinna's outfits help, but we need more. That's all I'm doing, I'm giving him _more_. He deserves _more_." The emotions threaten to bubble out of me, and I bite my lips to stop the tears from spilling. Effie tells me I was spectacular, a natural presence on stage, which I suppose is a nice thing to hear, but I only smile and carry on watching the blonde boy on stage. There's not a word I can hear over the pulsing blood in my eardrums, keeping myself under control, letting the calm move over me. When he stands and waves, the crowd goes wild and I know he's done it. He's funny, self-effacing, sweet.

In love with me, too. Though as he looms back into view, the look on his face is anything but warm.

I open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head. My heart shatters, and I scurry after him. _Stupid shoes_. I almost shriek in frustration, kicking them off and picking them back up as I move to catch up with him. Mentor and escort are behind us, and I couldn't care less. "Peeta, please! Let me explain, I was –"

"I know why you did it, Madge! Do you think I'm just going to _let_ you give up?" The way he suddenly rounds on me, I stop in my tracks. He is a simmering pot right now, and my mouth opens uselessly, "You're smarter than that, you know I would _never_ do that. What about everyone back at home? What about Katniss? I never... I never told her." The composure I forced on is slipping, and I know I took that chance away from him. The opportunity to look down the camera lens and tell her that he loved her. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shake my head. He's upset. I upset him, and what can I do? I thought that this was how it was going to have to be, that he would accept it with a little more ease. I threw him in the deep-end, but it didn't look like he was wallowing.

"Do you think it matters?" Haymitch speaks again, standing by my side with his arms folded, "What you told some _girl_ back home? Do you think it matters anymore? Look where you are, kiddo. You do know where you are? You're going to fight for your fuckin' life. Madge has made you _both_ something else. The other tributes know it too, they ain't dumb. They can see you now; they know you're the threat. But you'll get sponsors too. If you ever wanna tiptoe back to 12, you better start thinking straight."

He defended me, but I still can't look at Peeta. The guilt is crushing me, and my eyes are blurry. I hear him walk away, Haymitch calls after him and moves away to get a hold of the baker's son before he gives the game away. Effie's hand moves to my shoulder, but I can't help feeling everything is falling apart.

* * *

He didn't come to dinner. He didn't come to watch the interviews. Peeta was nowhere near me, he just kept away. After picking at my food, unable to listen to Haymitch and Effie converse, I tried going to my bedroom and finding something to relax myself with. I must have changed the scenery in my window a thousand times; none of it makes any impact on me. I cried my makeup away the moment I could. I thought about my mother, I thought about my father. They watched me today, they saw everything I did and everything I said. It doesn't help, it just makes it hurt more keenly. I drop the control on the bed, and wash my face before brushing my hair out. It feels so much better loose, I feel more like _me_.

Pulling on soft, silk, pyjamas – I hug the peach fabric to myself and lie back against the soft mattress. There's no way of getting comfortable, there's no way of sleeping. I feel terrible, I feel culpable, I want to talk to Peeta before tomorrow but he doesn't want to speak to me. _Can you blame him?_ I threw him under the train with no warning; he has every right to resent me. I need air. Pushing myself up, I move to the window and try the latch. It's not locked, and the moment it opens, the breeze is cool and refreshing. And the roof also reveals Peeta to me. He looks over, meets my eyes, and looks away.

I naturally hesitate, but I finally pad out and over to where he's sitting, "Do you mind?" The answer is a simple shake of his head, and I sink to the cold concrete. I realise what he's doing after watching him a couple of seconds. Throwing a stone off the roof, and catching it as it comes zooming back. My eyes follow it, seeing the slight shimmer it makes in the air as it impacts on something invisible, and flies back to his hand, "I guess it stops us escaping."

"Or killing ourselves," he adds. Pulling my knees up, I rest my chin on top and keep eyeing the trajectory without any real interest. The silence permeates loudly, and my heart thuds.

"Peeta, I'm... I'm sorry for what I've done. I know about Katniss, but I figured that..." I glance at him, he's completely still – he's not looking at me, but he's not moving. He's listening, that's all I wanted from him, "I figured that saying that we had something, that we were in love... No matter what happens in the arena between us, we'll always fall back on it. And you can go home, if we get there. You can go home to Katniss, and have a life." Now it's my turn to look away as his gaze meets mine. I play with one of the buttons of the top, and almost feel the sigh he releases.

"I know, I understand. But Madge, you have things to go back for, too. You're my friend; I can't just lie down and let you take the hit. You have your parents," he bites his bottom lip as I look back up and frown, "You know, my mother came to see me off. She told me 12 might have a winner this year. She didn't mean me. You're a lot stronger than you think. Everyone can see it, you're something special." I don't know what he's talking about, so I just shrug. "You have someone too, don't you? Someone you want to see again. Maybe... You know." His eyebrows wiggle at me and I laugh, reaching over to hit his arm gently. He always manages to do this, no matter how badly someone hurts him. I'm nothing compared to Peeta, he really shines.

"I don't." But I'm not convinced. I fall quiet, resting my cheek on my knees and look as the Capitol glitters iridescently. Smoke and apples, feeling safe... "I don't have anyone waiting for me."


	8. The Wolves

**disclaimer**; this sort of happened? half of it was from memory of the book, and then i opened my PDF version so it might be a little choppy with the editing. but have a bonus gale! xo

* * *

The Wolves

The morning comes, I wake up at the crack of dawn, and with it comes a sickness so deep in my stomach I can hardly stand to breathe. With the morning, I know that this is the beginning of my end, the day where I rise to a podium and look at the area where my bones are going to fall. There is no melodrama, no self-pity. It is a fact. I lie still, and I wonder if this is what it will be like. I doubt it. My mother never wanted me to watch the repeats they show over the course of the year, between each of the Games, but as any child – the allure of the forbidden beckoned me. I saw those vicious beaks, and I know it's not always the tributes that get you. Closing my eyes, I draw in a shaky, deep, breath and I try and find my courage. It must be somewhere; it must know I need it today more than ever.

All I discover is hollow obligation, resignation, no power to spur me onwards. Underlying all of that is terror. I can't ignore it, it scratches on my bones and it leaves its marks on me. I'm not sure how much I slept last night, if at all. Watching the canopy of darkness stretch overhead hadn't eased me to shutting my eyes and my endless thoughts. It smothered me; it reminded me how I could hardly breathe. It pressed down on my ribs and my lungs – the feeling hadn't abated now, not even an inch. I can't breathe; it's the sort of breathlessness that had followed me when Effie called my name out. I have to accept it, panicking will not do anything. My hands shake as I hold them above my head, and they fall down to my eyes. There are no tears, none at all, but I want to be somewhere else.

Knocking on my door manages to startle me from this medium I slipped into, and Effie calls out for me. I answer that I'm awake and going. She has done this every morning, because every morning I didn't want to move. I just wanted to disappear. The days in the training centre, showing my skills in front of the Gamemakers. None of them. Least of all today, least of all now. All of this coaching, all of this preparation, and I feel like a baby taking their first steps. I think of the roof with Peeta, how he took my hand and showed me the garden after climbing some steps, on the other side of a dome, and I wish we could have just stayed there and never moved. But we had to, because tributes don't escape by willing themselves away.

I'm the mayor's daughter, I'm Madge Undersee. Sweet, quiet, in love with the tribute who came here with me. It's all a lie – I'm a coward. I want to hide, I don't want to face reality. Moving from the bed, there's another knock on the door and I can't bite back my irritation as I speak, "I said I was going, Effie." But it opens anyway and I see Cinna standing there. The man startled me when I first saw him, but I warmed to him quickly. It's impossible not to, he just exudes calm and peace and those are two things I'm trying to hold onto. Today is the last day I'm going to see him, and it just hits me all over again. He walks over, and touches my face softly without saying anything, holding out a simple shift, "Put this on, we'll get you ready when you get there."

I don't even pause to have time to be embarrassed as I take my pyjamas off, and pull it on, because he's seen it all. When they were preparing me, waxing me and plucking me, he saw it all. I'm emotionally exhausted, there's nothing left in me to blush or be coy. Least of all with Cinna, the only person I met in this place who I could even consider trusting. He guides me to the roof, where we were last night, and I stand with him for a few moments. I'm shivering, though I don't think it's because I'm cold. It's the same way I've been shivering while I couldn't sleep. It turns into juddering as the hovercraft appears and the ladder comes down. I glance at Cinna, and he nods his head. My hand and feet touch it, and suddenly I'm frozen.

The currents don't release me once I am safely inside, and it's such an uncomfortable feeling. At least I'm not trembling anymore, I have no control over my body. What's new? None of this is in my control. I'm completely stuck, and I watch a woman approach me with a needle. A tracker, she tells me. Instructs me to remain still, as though I have a way of moving, and then presses the needle into my skin. I might not be able to move, but it goes in deep and I can feel it. I just can't even wince the way I want to. But finally, it's over and Cinna is allowed up from the roof. I look at the area where the tracker had been inserted and I shake my head to myself. We're lead through to where there is a spread for breakfast. I don't want to eat; I don't want to touch a morsel.

But Cinna looks at me, and it's a look that reminds me this is the last full meal I'll eat before I'm taken away.

So I start to make my way through everything methodically, even when it feels like I'm about to burst, I push through the wall and I carry on. Eating so much makes me want to cry from the amount of food I'm forcing myself to consume. But there's not much that's making me not want to cry today, it seems. Even waking up from a fitful sleep did. I want Cinna to hold my hand, to talk to me, to reassure me. But he can't, he can't. All he can do is look at me and I see the pity in his eyes. _I'm sorry this is happening to you_, he told me when he met me. Like he really meant it. But if it wasn't me, it would be someone else. Maybe he's sorry for every tribute in every District. I'm going to die, but at least Cinna can see what these Games truly are.

An hour later finds us in the Stockyard, the abattoir. It's shiny, brand new, we sure are a lucky bunch. My skin still shakes, and we're being taken around a site that will become historic for all the Capitol residents. I feel sick, I knew I shouldn't have eaten so much. But I swallow stubbornly and keep pace with my stylist. He tells me to shower and get ready. For some reason I brush my teeth, more for comfort than anything else, and step out in a towel and with damp hair hanging down my back. He combs it through, plaiting it tightly, and then winding it in a bun at the back of my head. Simple, I suppose, and it keeps everything out of my face. We don't speak; we just put everything together slowly but surely. My face is devoid of everything, every feeling and emotion. I don't even have my pin.

I look at him when I'm finished and my lips turn downwards. He shakes his head, smiling at me in that assuring way he manages and pulls something familiar and golden from his pocket, "Oh. Cinna. I thought I'd lost it."

"I found it on the dress you wore when I first saw you. Your token, isn't it? It's special to you." I murmur a 'very' and let him pin it to my shirt. After checking it all fits perfectly, and now we have to wait. And waiting is the worst part, waiting for a trumpet to summon Death to my door. I think about Peeta. I go through every single name of every single person I'm going to miss. I take some water and nibble food but it's a bad idea, my stomach can barely contain it. He looks at me, he keeps looking at me. And moves a hand to my shoulder, "You can talk to me, Madge."

"I'm scared I'll cry if I talk," I whisper, so an arm goes around my shoulders instead. I collapse against him, letting him hold me until someone announces we have to prepare for launch. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I'm so unprepared, I'm so not ready. I don't accept this; I don't want to accept this. I wish I was a bird, just fly away. But I'm not. There will be twenty two pairs of cruel eyes looking at me. Twenty three if Peeta goes against me. I have no chance. _Don't go to the Cornucopia_. I can hear Haymitch's voice, I can remember that advice. _Avoid the bloodbath_. "Margaret," his voice rouses me from the terror I slipped into, we're in front of a glass tube I can't even remember approaching, "Remember everything. Run, find water, everything else will follow." He smiles at me and puts his hands on my shoulders so he can look into my eyes, "If I could bet, my money would be on you."

"That's a poor choice to make, Cinna." My voice shakes, and so does his head. He props me up, and I feel the cylinder lower around me. Claustrophobia grips me, like an old friend. _Act, just act_. Like I do when I'm on stage with my father, it's just acting. I press my hands on the glass, and watch him as he tells me how to lift my head. My grip only slackens as I start to move and my heart races so quickly I feel as though I'll drop dead of the blood thundering through my body.

All of a sudden, there is a blaze of light and I wince as I look across the expanse before me. There are tributes spaced around me, and as I take in a deep breath of fresh air, the words sound out and hit me in my stomach.

"_Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games begin!_"

* * *

We're all here, sitting in the Square, watching them appear on their podiums. Watching her. Watching him. Watching this contrived bullshit. They showed us the arena before the tributes arrived, panned out to reveal the Cornucopia, their nearest water source. Like I really give a damn. I spot Madge before I spot Peeta, and the happy couple look far from that. Then again, I suppose it would be hard to look happy when you're about to enter a life or death situation. I chew the inside of my cheek, Posy is in front of my legs and my hands on her shoulders so she can't runaway. So she can't see what's about to happen on the screen. Rory stands next to me, arms folded across his chest like a little man. Vick's holding mom's hand. Katniss is on my other side with Primrose in front of her, and her eyes haven't moved from the arena for a moment. The countdown begins at sixty, one minute for them to remain still and ready to run.

I don't speak to any of them, because I can see Madge's father standing amid Peacekeepers, and I think of his wife – alone and at home, watching her daughter without knowing if she was going to see the other side of the first five minutes of these Games. _Fifty_. For some reason my heart is beating heavily in my chest, and I feel Posy shift under hands as she turns her eyes up to look at me, "What's gonna happen?" The question distracts me, and I peer down at my baby sister. Her eyes are full of innocent curiosity, and I force a semblance of a smile to my face, though it's more of a grimace at this point.

"Nothing, we're all just waiting for something." The enigmatic response seems to please her four year old inquisitiveness, and I look back up as the countdown hits _thirty six_. Thirty six, thirty five, on and on and on and on. It keeps going down, it keeps on ticking away from her and from us and from Peeta and from everyone. _She just needs to get out of there, break into the trees_. But Madge has never stepped out of the comfort of her home, she has never hit the woods, she doesn't know what to do. I would know how to tackle this, Katniss would know too. Madge, however, is completely devoid of this knowledge. Peeta too, but I don't trust him. I don't trust the way he looks at Katniss sometimes, I don't trust the way he comes across as being so innocent.

I don't like the hardness in his face right now, where I can see the weakness in the girl's.

_Twenty_. What is she going to do, what is her plan of action? Does she have one? _Let her get out of there_. Or maybe it would be kinder if she was taken out of there now, maybe it would be better than seeing her wither into the ground when she runs out of food and water. I move a hand from Posy's shoulder and rub it across my face. The movement makes her look up at me again, "Can you pick me up?" Taking in a slow breath, I bend down and lift her up. I whisper for her not to look ahead and press her head into my shoulder. She's a good girl; after her arms lock around my neck she remains utterly stationary.

_Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five_. My eyes are glued, I can't look away. I see her position herself. _Four. Three. Two. One_.

She's quick, she moves quickly. But she doesn't hit the trees, not like Peeta does. She saw something and she's running towards it. She sprints, her slim body cutting through the air seamlessly. She grabs a dark purple backpack, and as she swings it over her back, a blade hits it. She turns her head a moment and meets the eyes of the girl from Two. But she barely stops, she keeps ducking and weaving, and I start to see how she scored her nine. She seems to be going for some sort of weapon, but she looks up in time to see someone else reaching it and turns on her heel before she can even miss a beat. She has the knife in her pack, she's smart.

I watch Madge disappear into the trees, and the District release a breath they didn't know they had been holding. Both of our tributes are safe. For now.


End file.
